


062 - Cute Teenage Van Fic

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Teenage Van
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 04:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Can you do one where you and Van are close friends and you always hang out after school and cuddle and stuff and he admits his feelings for you?? thank you!”





	062 - Cute Teenage Van Fic

You hadn't really been friends with Van when he was still in school. You were in the same year level, but you never noticed him except for the moments where he'd be off task in class and a teacher would ask him if there was something more important than his education. There always was. There was always something he cared more about. A new song. A show on the weekend. Finding a drummer for his band. His new puppy. You'd always chuckle under your breath at the chaos he caused.

You became friends on the day that would be the catalyst for him dropping out. It was a Friday, and you had English after lunch. Honestly, you were surprised he was even in class; he would frequently skip. The teacher was having everyone analyse poetry. You loved English, and you loved poetry. You started to flick through your own copy of Howl and Other Poems. You made eye contact with Van briefly as he was searching through his bag for something. He gave you a smile, and you smiled back and quickly looked away. He pulled out headphones and started to listen to something, tapping the beat out on his desk with pencils. The teacher was on him instantly, ripping the headphones off his head.

"Mr McCann, did you not hear the instructions?"

"Yeah, poetry. Analyse," Van answered.

"And what part of that involves listening to whatever this is?"

"This is The Streets, man. Poetry. Here, listen," he replied and picked the headphones up and tried to hand them over. The teacher didn't unfold his arms from across his chest.

"Some dropkick band isn't poetry. It doesn't conform to the rules, the technique, the genius of poetry."

You didn't want to get into trouble, but you also couldn't stand when people so brutally misunderstood poetry.

"Actually," you said loudly and the whole class turned to you, "Most of the greats were considered so prolific because of their lack of conformity. Whitman… And, uh, poetry isn't beautiful because of technique. It's because of its soul. You told us that people hated Ginsberg, and didn't understand what all the weirdos of the Beat Generation were about. Maybe that's what some musicians are like? Bob Marley was a poet. Jim Morrison. So maybe… whatever he's listening to… maybe it's better than what you think he should be reading?"

You could have heard a pin drop, then Van started to cackle with laughter. He stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder and walked over to you. The teacher watched it all unfold with no power to change anything.

"You are so fucking right," Van said. He leant across the desk and kissed your forehead. "What the fuck am I doing here?" You watched him walk out of the classroom, and he never came back.

…

When you got home from school that day, Van was sitting on your doorstep. He didn't stand up when you stood in front of him. Obviously your parents were not home yet; they surely would have chased the mushroom haired, leather jacking wearing boy away ASAP.

"Hi," he said.

"Um… Hi? What are you…"

"I just wanted to say thank you for what you said in class. You're like, dead smart, yeah?"

You couldn't work out if he was actually asking you for an opinion about your own intelligence. He was looking up at you though, and you noticed how long his eyelashes were.

"Um. I just… I like poetry?" you answered, a little uncomfortably. "How do you know where I live?"

"One of your friends is friends with my friend,"

"That's… vague… Um. Okay. Well, you're welcome," you said as you went to move around him to go inside. He stood then. You opened the door and looked back. He wasn't leaving. "Did you want something?"

"Yeah, actually," he started, running his fingers through his hair. "So, I've started this band, right, and since you know what good poems sound like I thought maybe you could have a look at some lyrics and tell me if they're any good?"

It started as simple as that. Every few days you'd sit down with Van and he'd sing you a new song. He wrote every day, and with your feedback the lyrics got better and better. Within weeks the hangout sessions were less about words and more about everything else. He was easy to be around, and you felt totally like yourself when you were lying on his bed while he walked around pulling records off shelves to show you, or when he was sitting at your kitchen table while you baked cookies for him to take to band practice.

His parents loved you, naturally. You could tell they thought you and Van were dating, and maybe he didn't say anything to indicate otherwise, but you still felt at home there. Your parents didn’t want to like Van, the dropping out of school thing being a huge concern for them, but he used his manners, would always take the time to ask them how they were, and he even brought your mum flowers on her birthday. If he had not come over in a few days they would ask where he was.

…

You'd been best friends for three months before your first sleepover. Mary and Bernie were going out of town, and Van invited you over for the weekend. On the Friday night, you tried to marathon all the Star Wars films. Halfway into Return of the Jedi you fell asleep cuddled into Van's side. He passed out soon after, and you woke up with your limbs tangled. On the Saturday night, you got drunk for the first time in your life. Van tucked you into his bed at only a little past eleven. You tried to say you'd sleep on the couch, or in the guest room, but he wouldn't let you.

"You like my bed, Y/N. Just, stay," he laughed, literally fighting to get your legs under the blankets. You huffed, puffed, and kept complaining. You were too drunk to do much though.

"Vaaaaaaaaaan," you whined, "Don't leave me."

He sat cross legged next to you quietly for a while. You tried to stay awake and hold conversation, but you were fading fast. He gently pulled the blanket up around you and brushed hair away from your face. You felt him press a light kiss on your forehead. Him whispering "Goodnight, babe," was the last thing you heard before passing out entirely.

After that weekend, your bodies drifted together more frequently. You'd bump shoulders if you were out, and if you were home you'd sit almost on top of each other on the couch. Your parents let Van stay over, as long as your bedroom door was open and you slept with heads at opposite ends of the bed. You secretly liked that. Van would hug your legs close to him and tickle your feet. You slept better when he was close.

…

It was almost the end of your high school career. Finals were coming up, and you were stressed. Van helped however he could. Sometimes that meant staying away, sometimes that meant sitting quietly in the corner of your room and making you tea when you needed. A few times he even copied out some notes for you, but gave up when you couldn't read his handwriting easily.

It was a long weekend, Monday being a public holiday. Van came over Friday afternoon. You were lying on your bed staring at the ceiling. He came in and sat on top of you, straddling your hips.

"Gross. Move," you said.

"Nah. You've got the schoolgirl thing going on," he pulled at your school dress and you pushed his hands away, "I'm into it,"

"Fuck off. Still gross," and you sat up and punched him off you. He laughed and rolled to the other end of your bed.

"So, Benji's parents are going to his Uncle's for the long weekend. He's throwing a party tonight. Wanna come?"

Yes. Obviously. You loved going to Van's gigs and parties. You never really struggled to make friends, and you felt pretty self-assured, but being associated with someone like Van, someone who you thought was the epitome of cool, always made you feel extra special. He would always look after you when you were out together too. Get you drinks, dance when you asked to, made sure you were comfortable and happy.

You made Van pick an outfit for you and went and got changed in the bathroom. The first time you asked him to choose clothing, you expected him to pull out a summer dress, or the shortest skirt you owned. However, he didn't. Van would always find your favourite jeans, and any band shirt that was clean. Benji lived only a few blocks away, and Van piggybacked you the entire way.

…

The house started to empty of people around 2am. Soon, there was just a small group of friends left. You sat on the lounge room floor with Van. Benji and his girlfriend were stretched along the couch, and there were five other people you'd either briefly met before, or met that night. You were all spacing out and listening to The Doors on vinyl. As Van picked it out and dropped it onto the record player, he winked at you. Poetry set to music.

"We should, like, do something," someone said.

"Like what?" someone else asked.

Suggestions were thrown around. A card game? Drinking game? Truth or dare?

"Spin the bottle?" Benji's girlfriend suggested, giggling. "Nobody here is dating someone, except us, but we can kiss whoever so it's fine, and it will be fuuuuuuunnnnn, yeah?"

Everyone agreed immediately. Van didn't react in a positive nor negative way. He seemed apathetic. The group rearranged to sit in a circle, and an empty beer bottle was placed in the middle. The first people destined to kiss were you and Benji. His girlfriend laughed the whole way through. It was a very brief kiss, but it felt like kissing a sibling and you were very weirded out. When you sat back down next to Van, he felt still. He didn't look over at you. The spinning continued, and you watched Van kiss one the guys you had met that night. You kissed the same guy, then Benji's girlfriend. When it was Van's turn again he made a big deal out of it.

"Alright. Last one, then I'm out," he said. Everyone made various dramatic sounds. He sat up on his knees and spun the bottle hard. It kept swirling long enough that people became a little entranced. As it started to slow, you held your breath and could feel your skin go cold and prickly. You knew it before it even happened. The bottle stopped pointing directly at you. The group made a synchronised ohhhhhhh sound.

You didn't know what you were meant to do. You loved Van, so fucking much, but you hadn't ever thought of kissing him. In the beginning of your friendship you pushed any thoughts like that out of your mind. The daydreams you used to have about him in English were repressed when you got to know him. You didn't want to lose him as a best friend because you were a little obsessed with the shape of his nose or the way he noticed when you did your makeup differently. You truly believed you did not have a crush on him.

There was a moment where Van hesitated. He moved a tiny bit, then stopped. Everyone was watching. Then, he stood up. The movement meant you couldn't not look up. He had his hand held out. You took it, and he pulled you up. You could feel your stomach doing flips, and your heart beating painfully fast.

"Close your eyes," he instructed. His voice was gentle and quiet. You did what you were told. With the hand not holding yours, he pulled you closer to him. Your bodies were pressed together and his hand rested on your lower back. You felt him lean in. His nose brushed against yours and you could feel his breath. You reflexively licked your lips, and purposefully left them parted slightly. "Okay?" he whispered. You nodded, but it was barely a movement at all. It was enough.

Van pressed his lips to yours and time stood still. The captive audience were frozen. The rest of the world faded away. You kissed back, and when his tongue ran along your bottom lip you let it in. You held his hand tighter, until the kiss ended and you stepped apart quickly. You covered your mouth with both your hands immediately and looked at him. He looked scared. The room was still watching. Then, you ran.

You ran out of the room, out of the front door, and down the street. You could hear Van calling after you, and his boots on the pavement.

"Y/N! Stop! Where are you going?"

You were at the end of the street. It was cold out, and there was fog sitting low across the roads. Where were you going? Van caught up. You both stood catching your breath. He looked at you. It was clear he didn't know what you were feeling; he didn't know if should apologise or ask what happened. You spoke first.

"We can just pretend that didn't happen,"

"Is that what you want?" he asked sounding hurt. And no, it wasn't what you wanted. "That's not what I want, Y/N… Fuck." He ran his hand through his hair, then started to search for his cigarettes and lighter. A smoke sat between his lips and his hands were shaking too much to hold the lighter steady. You stepped closer and took it from him. You lit the smoke and let him inhale. "Alright. Fuck it," he said and turned to you. He put the smoke-free hand on your shoulder and looked directly at you. "I'm totally in love with you. Have been from the get go."

All the poems of unrequited love, and all the songs of lust and romance, none of the words could help you to articulate your own feelings. Van moved about on the spot and watched his cigarette get shorter and shorter. He finished by the time you were ready to speak.

"I love you too."

Van looked up from where he was stomping the cigarette butt into the ground.

"Really?"

You nodded and it was all he needed. He pulled you into him and kissed you hard. The warmth and the comfort you felt whenever you hung out with Van, it translated in the kiss. Home was whenever you were with him.


End file.
